


Rather strange, and also a bit scary

by spiritcc



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: AU, F/M, Family Drama, Humor, Translation, shipping a pairing with two fics on ao3 was a great idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritcc/pseuds/spiritcc
Summary: AU: Ernesto was indeed Miguel's great-great-grandfather, and was therefore Imelda's husband.Many thoughts to be had, a fateful meeting occurs, everyone gets scared, Héctor dwells on the mysteries of family life.





	Rather strange, and also a bit scary

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Странности и страшности](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/357930) by 6557. 



> Originally written in Russian by me, translated to English also by me (I swear I didn't do an ernesto on this fic I did actually write it and even pulled a mr. worldwide just now with this translation). I tried my best which is obviously not the best.   
> Also tried mixing the painful reality of family life with the cartoon's, well, cartoonishness to an extent, and changed the basic plot points to suit the AU setup.   
> Ernesto/Imelda for life yall

It pained. It was even scary to think about how she could be so wrong. But Imelda couldn’t stop thinking: _was_ she so wrong, after all?

The question of love Imelda had discarded almost immediately, and closed it for herself – forever open – with the same determination with which she banned music for all future generations of the Rivera family. Tender _amor_ or not, what’s the difference, especially in comparison to the events that followed? Imelda implored to herself that of course, there was no difference after all.

She never expected that from Ernesto, how could she? But she had a feeling. Such stubbornness, _such stubbornness_ – Imelda would have never had to go to war with such a bloke around. Every trifle was a death match, every disagreement – a battle of Somme. Imelda’s life-long plans never accounted for a silly impossibility of some particularly dense soul daring to imply she could be wrong. And _goodness gracious_ , she was rather tired of having to show Ernesto on practice that he was also, and most definitely not, that soul incarnate. Ernesto, however, was even more persistent in his quest to prove to her that such an elusive entity existed, and was, actually, right in front of her. It was tiring Imelda out, to be dragging this silly, stubborn, and very vocal Ernesto out of the trench of his own wrongness, but such was her holy duty as a caring and wise spouse.

This aspect of the touching genuineness of their relationship satisfied Imelda completely, and was never a source of questions that arose too late.

Simpler questions, on the other hand, - about their everyday – were chewing her inside out with uncertainty, with moments that she didn’t think twice about back then. Family, household, their future: Ernesto answered all of that easily, saying things Imelda secretly wanted to hear. She looked at his face, listened to his words – and trusted him wholeheartedly. How couldn’t she? He was ready to die a brave death in a battle for a stolen piece of blanket at night. And yet he answered questions that would define his entire life – right there on the spot, with no hesitation or even a second of delay. If Ernesto says that he – they – will have everything, it means they will have everything.

But what kind of answers were these? Evasive, lacking, insincere? Too standard? Imelda believed him alright, but did she always have that feeling? Uncertainty, worry, distrust? She always felt something. These suspicions, however, only proved true when everything had already assumed its tragic positions.

Or did she not feel anything at all? Made up some intuition for herself when it was too late to follow it? Looked at Ernesto with a sober mind already after the fact and unintentionally lied, convinced herself that she always knew?

Thinking about those things soon ceased to be painful, or even scary. Imelda and her questionable personal happiness did not matter anymore: but what about Coco? Did he ever love her? Was Imelda lying to herself – again?

Despite Imelda’s best efforts, she had the misfortune of being subjected to music because of various accidents: and his face, and his voice were only awakening a feeling of tired irritation in her at most. He loved the stage, yes. He loved music. She loved it too, just like Ernesto – in adequate amounts, as she thought back then. Music never overshadowed her life, their family life, and even the most passionate love faded in comparison to her love to Coco. Trivialities no longer existed for Imelda: she had only gained more life energy, fierce stubbornness, unbent determination to give Coco everything that could be squeezed out of this world.

Ernesto’s love for music, however, was shaken neither by family responsibilities, nor by his own daughter.

And so he left with a smile, that easily, without thinking twice. And he sang just as cheerfully. And his face looked just as unburdened as always. As if there was indeed nothing behind him. As if no family ever existed – only the scene. Ernesto sings before a sea of faceless people, with dozens of uniform dancers, sings songs addressed to no one in particular – to a blurry concept of a beloved woman with no entity or personality.

Imelda listened to his performance for longer than expected out of sheer confusion. Gorgeous outfit, the colours, strong voice, kind face and good texts: such a lively performance. Such a _dead_ performance. Imelda looked at his face in the receiver for the last time in her life, and could not find a trace of human soul. The scene was roaring, his voice was getting higher and higher, but Imelda could not hear anything but empty noise.

How could she explain to her daughter, to her most beautiful and capable girl in the world, that this person on screen made a conscious decision to abandon her? He loves his guitar, he loves the stage, he loves all these strangers who serve as his audience. This is his family. But Coco is not. For some reason, Coco is not.

Does Coco deserve to torture herself with the question of what did she do that the kindest Tío of Mexico grew to dislike her this much? Why did her father accept strangers in his life, but turned his family away?

In the end, Imelda decided to spend as much time on these thoughts as did her fantabulous spouse – no time at all, by the looks of it. A wonderful decision, she must admit, needs to be given credit where it’s due. Coco does not need to suffer because of him. Her family cannot suffer because of him. Why should Imelda sit on one place and pity herself, ruin her life over god knows who, some light wind in the sea of her past life, and the life that awaits her? Imelda had already found a job to do.

Music and frightening prospects of Ernesto’s genes were scaring and angering Imelda for the rest of her life. Despite that, she ended up being too busy with much more interesting things to spare him a thought, and as the time passed, she indeed ceased to care.

 

 

Imelda’s memories of Héctor were rather foggy: it had been almost a century, after all. At the time, she got one thing rather clearly: Héctor was the same musical guck of a cuck just like her infinitely faithful amigo, so their friendship did not surprise her in the slightest. He, too, played guitar, and sang songs Imelda never heard before – probably his own songs, then. Strange to admit that in those times Ernesto towered over all men in Imelda’s eyes, and she never managed to make anything out of Héctor in her husband’s shadow. Héctor, on the other hand, found himself new ears for his songs – Coco – and since then he always thanked Imelda for something. For what, he could never say properly, as he used to choke on his tongue in fear every time his eyes met with Imelda’s. Ernesto let out a proud laugh once, quoting Héctor’s words to her as proof of her amazing hospitality: Héctor “found a family he never had”. Such a poetic sentiment seemed strange to Imelda, almost too melodramatic to believe.

Then Héctor vanished altogether with Ernesto and Imelda did not think of him any longer.

Her poor, brave and such naïve Miguel turned out to be wiser than her even in his tender age. Her nightmare came true: somebody finally got acquainted with their distant predecessor under the thundering name of Ernesto de la Cruz, and discovered things that even Imelda could not swallow.

But Miguel had accepted all that. He did so, and named family a person who genuinely deserves it. Who does not share a single drop of family blood with him, but instead shares a great deal of ideas, talent and love.

Héctor.

Imelda thought he disappeared with the same cowardice and frivolity as his “amazing” friend, but the truth has surpassed her expectations. Murdered. Murdered for talent that Ernesto never had, deceived and left for dead. Ernesto did not even spare his own great-great-grandson – and here Imelda thought that he could not become even deader in her eyes.

Miguel was saved by a complete stranger, and that stranger gave him his heart for nothing in return, not because of family responsibilities or the burdening sense of duty.

_“A family he never had”._

Héctor does not need fame, does not need his stolen songs. Héctor wants to see Miguel smiling. He wants to see Miguel put his soul into his voice and his desire to bring music to the people. Héctor wants Miguel to treasure her – Imelda – to understand her pain, to understand how important his family is to him and how much it wants to give only the best it can.

Héctor is forgotten. Héctor is disappearing. But his photograph that Miguel was fighting so hard for, is finally in her hands.

Miguel is right. If Héctor wants, for some reason, to appear on an ofrenda and cross over to the land of the living – then let it be. He deserves to have a family and happiness more than Ernesto. If Miguel thinks the same, then for Imelda, it is an order.

 

 

When his hand suddenly locked on her wrist, his voice thundered above hers, and a devilish grin spread across his features – Imelda froze in fear.

A true professional on stage, master of improvisation. Imelda stumbled, kept singing and bending under his actions like a puppet. Ernesto leads this dance, enjoys his own voice and the way he makes the stadium roar. He enjoys her helplessness, her fear: the last trifle left is that unfortunate picture in her hand. Ernesto spins her out of a pirouette, and they come face to face.

For the first time during this horror, Imelda lifts her eyes to his face and meets a familiar grin, a playful shine in his eyes, a _challenge_. One arm circled around her waist, and another was already so gracefully and forcibly slithering to the piece of paper in her palm. His gaze is an arrogant, wild fire, it’s the certainty with which he knows her inside and out. Ernesto grabbed onto her not like to a faceless obstacle on his way to this damned photo: in this one second when Imelda looked into his eyes with fear for the last time in her life, she realised that he has not forgotten a single thing. He grabbed onto her with the rights of a lawful husband, and he was determined to make her remember everything that she tried so hard to forget.

Imelda looked at him back.

So, a great talent, they say. To be honest, she grew somewhat tired of getting scared because of him. It certainly won’t hurt to get a proper look at this “talent” for the first time in her life, who knows, maybe she wasn’t that wrong, after all, in her hurry to get all terrified?

Can’t put two words together without some grand theft intellectual property. Superman incarnate in all his movies, but as soon as it came to raising his daughter, his bravery must have been tragically victimised by kryptonite. Everyone is a friend to him, unless, of course, their talent and heart are more prominent than his. Surprising that he didn’t poison half the world, if not the entire world, in his quest to seem just slightly better next to a feeling of having parsley stuck between your teeth. He even decided to make a performance for her out of all this. All lost in his dance convulsions, howling, and he even dares to grin as if it’s the show of her life.

_Goodness gracious_ , a sewing machine creates a more entertaining rhythm than he does. She is _so_ fed up of him and his attempts to disrupt her. Can’t even catch a break in the afterlife.

King of the world, huh? Well, let her show him.

Ernesto’s palm was gliding towards the photo in Imelda’s hand when it was sent flying by a sudden and strong slap, so confident and graceful that the audience took it as another feature of their rather… interesting collaboration. Ernesto didn’t even have time to shift his eyes from his scattered fingers when her voice roared in his ear, as if amplified through a remote of her spite. Imelda had to close her eyes to hold such a note up: Ernesto’s waling seemed to drown in her singing, as well as the entire live orchestra. Alas, Imelda couldn’t see the magical expression on Ernesto’s face at that moment.

Imelda felt the arm of her literal killer partner leave her waist, evidently getting ready to swirl her in a complicated dance where she had no advantages. Without interrupting her solo debut, Imelda grabbed Ernesto’s still aching arm and began spinning him around in a vortex of fake passion with a sprinkle of an upcoming shoulder dislocation. However, Ernesto’s confusion from his unwilling tornado parody did not last long.

Imelda wasn’t done spinning him like a lasso when he wriggled himself out of her fingers. One second, and one of his arms snaked around her waist again, another one clutched her wrist inches away from Héctor’s photo, his chest firmly pressed into her back, and his chin softly landed on her shoulder. Second two, and Ernesto swirled her away in a dance, not stopping singing even for a moment.

Second three, and Imelda elbowed him in the ribcage, almost hissing her vocal promise to “never stop loving” him.

Second four, and Ernesto dived under her arm, trying to conceal the pain in his ribs, and they appeared face to face once again.

A new spark ignited in his eyes, a spark that seemed painfully familiar to her. For less than a second, Imelda’s mind threw her back to some faraway time with blurry faraway memories. What happened back then? Where was she back then? But the flesh was still on her bones, and that new gaze of his layered over the one back then on his young face, uncannily, like a carbon copy. Imelda frowned harder, and continued her attempts to escape his grip that only seemed to get more persistent with the appearance of that strange expression on his face.

Should she sign up for boxing or something, being able to dodge his arms so energetically at this age must definitely be hinting at some hidden talent of hers. _God, she is so fed up with him_. Already furious, Imelda was trying to deflect his attacks and dance moves as painfully as possible, but Ernesto wasn’t giving up.

Lift his hands to her? Get elbowed in all the bones reachable.

Do not dodge him in time? Get graciously lifted up in the air like an aspiring ballerina.

Try and grab the photograph? Feel like being engaged into a fight with a toddler over a toy.

Attempt to escape backstage to Miguel? Get dragged back to the crowd.

Mysterious emotions on Ernesto’s face soon turned into easily readable anger, and just like Imelda, he realised that he had enough. He grabbed her roughly and furiously, not giving her a single possibility to break away: this damned song and this damned dance will finally come to an end, and this end will be his triumph.

Imelda’s fists were squeezed in his hands, in one of those fists – Héctor’s photo, god knows in what condition after this showdown. Imelda could no longer fight off his grip – the pain took all of her remaining strength away. Feeling his victory, Ernesto turned his face to her one last time and placed his hands with her fists inside on his chest, a la sensitive Romeo. “No dejaré de quererte”, he thundered. “I will never stop loving you”, he smirked, not letting go of her fists, enjoying his own voice once again.

One second, and he has already forgotten why he ran on the stage in the first place, completely lost in the final line of this grim song. I will never stop loving you, he sings, looking her straight in the eye and spreading his mouth into a vile smile.

“AY AY AY AY!”, he went, closing his eyes and hamming it up for the public.

Oi-oi-oi, that’s what you’ll get. Bravo, but of course, truly a master of his trade, we are all awed. Imelda rolled her eyes. All these years have evidently paid off with all that experience. Well, if we are on a trade exchange today, why not show how wonderfully _she_ had mastered _her_ craft after all these entertaining years?

Sticking her foot out with the tenderly sharpened heel of her homecrafted boot, Imelda brought it down on Ernesto’s shoe, festively and passionately.

 

 

The protector of the Rivera family had enough. A cat, no, - a gracious tigress stood before de la Cruz, scaring him out of his mind. Try to murder Miguel a second time, and right in front of her? This needs to come to an end.

She jumped on the villain with a shuddering growl, and dragged him on the stage like a toy. She was tearing and throwing him around like expected of an animal, only redirecting her attention when the putrid man appeared in front of the audience once again.

Then Pepita came along, too.

The owner and the cat changed places: Pepita was on her way to finish Ernesto off, and Imelda dashed to Miguel and Héctor, who were staring at her with their mouths wide open after what they have witnessed. Indeed, pets do resemble their owners. In rather scary proportions, to add.

Imelda was giving her crying great-great-grandson a blessing together with a complete stranger, and no longer saw anything strange about it. The photograph was lost, Héctor was dying in front of their eyes, whispering his blessing to Miguel onto a gloving petal with his last strength. Héctor was not thinking about himself. Miguel, too, figuratively or literally, was dying in front of them, and the more visible his bones were becoming through his vanishing skin, the more desperately Imelda guided Héctor’s weakening wrist with the petal in his hand to the boy’s chest.

“I promise!”, was Miguel’s last desperate cry in the land of the dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This year, Héctor was crossing over to the world of the living for the first time.

Señora Imelda and her family were waiting for him on the other side of customs with a slightly bored expression on her face, as if his photo on an ofrenda was just a mundane occurrence, and not the happiest and craziest event to happen to him in the last century. Imelda saw no point in simulating a surprise: Miguel did promise Héctor that he will be remembered? Then it means Miguel will do exactly that. Imelda saw nothing surprising in the assumption that a person such as Héctor would be loved even a century after his death. Héctor, on the other hand, couldn’t believe that somebody even recalled his existence to begin with.

Señora Imelda volunteered to guide him on the other side of the world, to show everything and explain everything, so to say. It was neither a proposal nor a question – Señora voiced her initiative like it was an already established plan of action that needed not any input from Héctor himself. Not like he would have refused, but even with her noble intentions, Señora Imelda always sounds… rather scary.

And Héctor was grateful to her. Héctor thanked her back when he was still alive, but now, the list of all kind things she and her family have done for him will never have an end.

It was embarrassing to admit that Héctor became selfish at the end of his death. He wanted to continue living, even in such a state. The number of people who knew Héctor in his life was depleting, and his chances to appear on an ofrenda were rapidly approaching zero. And yet his acquaintances kept passing away, his “friend”, the Riveras, but Héctor somehow stayed alive. With Imelda’s death, the mystery of his liveliness became the most convoluted detective of his life: every single generation in Mexico that knew his face had disappeared, the customs consistently failed to find any pictures of him on the other side – and yet he still lived. Héctor spent days thinking, recollecting memories of every single person he’d ever met, but could not find an answer until he was struck by an impossible, infinitely crazy thought: Coco.

She wasn’t even four when they saw each other for the last time, it is totally insane. Héctor sure loved her, even composed a few songs for her, and was never as happy as when he saw her liking them. It seemed to him that this child understood him better than Ernesto, or any other adult. Not through words, of course, - through music. If such happiness is what it means to have a family, then Héctor really, _really_ hoped that Ernesto realised how lucky he was.

It couldn’t be that Coco still remembered him – or could it? He was a nobody to her, at the end of the day, and disappeared from her life unnoticed, without a trace. Yet he still lived. Héctor had no other candidates – and so he believed.

Héctor’s initial goal was indeed a desire to stay alive. But then, Ernesto de la Cruz arrived into their world: famous, desirable, _single_. Héctor could understand some things, why would a performer flash his wife and child left and right anyway, but nonetheless: unmarried? Officially childless?

Soon Héctor heard about the Rivera family. A family of _shoemakers_ who _hate music_ , headed by Señora Imelda, a _lone_ patron. Nothing was adding up, and even if it was, then only in a very unpleasant manner no matter how he looked at it. Héctor didn’t even notice how his thoughts slowly shifted from survival to this bad-looking question: what happened to Coco?

Héctor clutched to this question desperately and mindlessly: why should it be bothering him, why did he think it concerns him in any way? Héctor did not leave anything behind in his life and continued living with nothing in his death. The thought of what happened to that little girl became the meaning to his existence, filling the painful void.

One time he considered her a family that he never had.

Héctor expected nothing from Miguel’s return to the land of the living. What is Coco able to recall now? Her father? That is her right to cherish the memories of this distant man, and Héctor was ready to die peacefully accepting that. Miguel did the impossible and Coco indeed remembered, and began telling all sorts of stories.

Stories about Héctor.

That, Héctor was told already by Coco herself.

He still thinks he does not deserve to call them his family, but his thoughts were treacherously in another place already. Today, he is going to see Miguel. Miguel the musician. Héctor wants to jump over this bridge in one second, better just teleport straight away to their home to finally hear the songs that Miguel wrote. _By gods, he wants to hear these songs so much_. It is Miguel, after all, his talent will surely surpass Héctor’s so-called “art” by a good mile or ten. What does Héctor need harvesting some overdue fame? He did not understand that. The Riveras already have a new light for the future.

Héctor was infinitely grateful to Imelda for everything. Yet still, looking at her, he couldn’t get rid of those persistent shivers down his spine, all rooted down to “Ernesto”.

That night Héctor had more chances of dying from fear rather than oblivion watching these sweet doves interact on stage. No, they are, of course, no longer “doves” and thank god for that, but if Héctor thinks about it for long enough, it kind of even becomes clear why they got together in the first place. It’s all behind now, mistakes happen, the devil couple is no more, the relationship is dead.

And yet Héctor couldn’t stop thinking. Something rather strange, and also even a bit scary, kept nagging him every time he looked at the Señora, and the timeless questions of family and mysteries of domestic life flooded his mind. _How did she land herself in all this?_ Stop beating the dead horse, it’s all gone for good.

And yet still, almost one century old memories kept treacherously bringing him back to one strange scene.

 

Héctor was waiting for his friend near his house, all ready for an upcoming performance in a local tavern, looking around as if he was some sort of criminal. Ernesto finally sneaked out facing backwards, stood up and straightened his clothes.

“That’s it, we can go”, he declared cheerfully, hanging the guitar over his shoulder.

“A-are you sure? Did Señora Imelda agree?”, Héctor asked carefully.

“Ah yeah, sure”, Ernesto waved his hand, indicating that their movements are not affected by what she says in any way. Which Héctor doubted immensely, and that’s why he felt almost like a thief practically every evening. Oh well, if Ernesto is so sure, then they can go indeed, there were no more people Héctor could read the measurements of her mood off, at the end of the day. The men began making their way to the plaza.

_“ERNESTO!”_ , a furious female voice thundered behind them.

The happy husband froze with an expression of a man getting bludgeoned to death, or not – Héctor couldn’t make out exactly as the yell made him jump to about the level of Coco’s room on the second floor. He didn’t even land when Imelda already appeared before them. 

_"Where are you going?!”_ , her eyes pierced Ernesto.

“To perform, make people happy, cease the moment”, he replied with a big smile on his face, as if he was in the middle of giving a speech.

“So you’d fixed Mamá Esmeralda’s windows this quick that you’re running away faster than dirt flies in the wind?”, she placed her fists on her sides.

The smile melted off Ernesto’s face momentarily, replaced by an ugly, practically hellish grimace, as if the man himself was suddenly replaced with someone else.

“I will run when _this_ ”, he shook the guitar in his hand, “becomes a glass cutter, _Imelda_ ”.

“ _This_ will lead poor Mamá straight into her grave, with the help of your snarking”, Imelda raised her eyes to the sky and seemed to gather all her will in order not to kill her husband right there. “Because of you Mamá Esmeralda will die like some homeless bum with no doors or windows! _Your_ consciousness will be tainted, but it will be ME to succumb to her death chancla from the afterlife!”

“ _What doors?_ Her doors are better than the ones the royals have! Knock your life away at her door asking for milk she’ll never answer, and besides, people say the royals did have one of their main gates whisked away with the bolts and every-”

“ _How dare you, Ernesto!_ ”, Imelda switched from anger to pure petty judgement, “Mamá Esmeralda is like a happy bugambilia resting in the sun, never done a single bad deed to anyone in her life, can kick the bucket, god forbid, at any moment because of _you_ , and that’s how you show respect to your elders?!”

“Ah, but of course”, Ernesto exaggerated his sigh, “I remember how she almost kicked that bucket because of me practically yesterday, _five years ago_ , what a miracle that fixing her stairs immediately brought her back to life”.

“Are you really not ashamed? Her Tío Fernando, too, howls in his tavern instead of helping, so you decided to follow, but we have sorted that out already”. Imelda lifted the edges of her dress, ready to head back home.

“Yes, we have!”, Ernesto raised his voice at her back as if trying to prove his superiority, “Let her find someone who actually does repairs for a living! I will never be forced to dance to her vile tunes!”

“Yes, she knows that, dancing is only allowed at Tío Fernando’s after a job well done. Remind her, by the way, if Mamá forgets to knock at him, the evening will get cancelled altogether”.

Ernesto froze mid-sentence: Héctor managed to recognise no less than five emotions on his face.

“Th- _you told Fernando this?_ ”, Ernesto slowly started blowing up with rage.

“Nu-uh, Fernando is just the owner after all, Mamá Esmeralda is a much higher authority. No windows – she’ll tell Tío that everything hurts again, and he’ll cancel the raves or whatever you were going to do there, to massage her back all night. So chop-chop, you’re running out of time. Besides, Mamá told me you secretly enjoy fixing everything at her house anyways, so enjoy”, Imelda waved her hand.

Ernesto kept standing with his mouth wide open from the shock, angry and seemingly scarier than Imelda. But that wasn’t what scared Héctor in retrospective, - but this strange, _very_ strange spark that ignited in his eyes suddenly when he stared at the wife that had outplayed him. Was it because of lack of experience or limited perception or else, but the meaning of that shine in his friend’s gaze was lost to Héctor irretrievably.

The crooked angry mouth closed, and Ernesto squeezed a question out of himself with a much lower tone than expected.

“And how exactly is my beloved Mamá Esmeralda going to tell Fernando that everything is done?”, he caught up to Imelda’s back with a few wide steps.

“She won’t say anything”, Imelda turned to him only partially, dusting the sand off her dress, “She’ll knock. On the window”.

And so Imelda disappeared into the house with a sense of duty well completed, leaving behind her Ernesto, who was practically shaking with rage.

Héctor only now let out the breath he was holding all this time and loosened the grip on his guitar that he was unconsciously grabbing like to a lifesaver. His friend continued staring at the place where Imelda stood with his fierce gaze, biting on his lips in fury. That wasn’t the first, and was evidently not the last scene that Héctor witnessed between them. He himself knew nothing of relationships, and never dared to ask any questions during all these years. But at this moment, curiosity and worry for his friend’s mental health made him open his mouth and blurt out not exactly the question he was meaning to ask.

“D-…do you really like fixing everything in secret?”, Héctor asked meekly.

“ _Hate_ ”, Ernesto forced a single word between his teeth shut tight, breathing like an enraged bull.

“Do- do you love her?”

Again, not the best question, even a bit rude one and definitely out of nowhere, but Héctor still couldn’t formulate sentences properly after what he’d survived just now, and the question of love he wanted to sort out once and for all in the name of family science.

Suddenly, Ernesto almost seemed to deflate: his wild breathing turned into a lingering sigh in under a second, his mouth widened into some dreamy smile, and the good mood returned to him as if that “conversation” a minute ago never took place.

“ _So much_ ”, he answered under his breath, quietly and confidently.

 

Héctor did not understand any of that at all. Or maybe he started to, crossing the bridge over to the land of the living. One thing he got rather clearly: thinking about the nuances of these relationships was definitely strange, and indeed a bit rather scary.

**Author's Note:**

> plz never translate again (c) everyone after reaching the end
> 
> One last note, pals and gals: please never seek such a relationship in real life, it is rather harmful for your nerves and patience.


End file.
